Disarmament

[rinue]

A little past two in the morning, I became convinced that someone had stolen my arms and replaced them with somebody else's. I could tell because the elbows were loose-thready and the shoulders seemed to be in great danger of popping off. Perhaps I should not have been concerned as they were clearly not mine, but they remained the only arms I had available and I dreaded the possibility of their falling apart. I tossed and turned for hours, putting on tight-sleeved shirts, swadding myself in blankets, lying on top of the arms and gripping them like straight jackets. It's a horrible sickening feeling to have pointed evidence that you do not fit, when your hands feel alien and your arms don't seem to obey you. Eventually, Patrick had to pin me down and force me to stop moving, sharing responsibility for control of the intruder arms. After four hours of sleep, I seem to have my own arms back, but I believe they are now a different age from the rest of my body, as though they have lived a life of hard experience without me.